Thaw
by TheWillOfMythal
Summary: She is a mage from a noble house, you a princess yourself and a Seeker of Truth. It's a tale of heroism, dragon hunts, self-discovery and romance that writes itself. Hopefully, being the main character, you'll have a head start before Varric puts the story to ink and enriches it with the most inappropriate graphic details. F!Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast.


Sooo... It's been a while since I wrote anything for this fandom, but apparently this is what happens when you replay the game somehow melancholically and find out that, after five years, you are still a little bitter for not being allowed to romance one of the most compelling characters as female Inquisitor. This long one-shot is basically just me getting into that possibility of a romance by playing around with circumstances. Just angsty enough to push the beloved, grumpy, easily-flusterable Seeker to uncover hidden feelings.

It takes place whenever you want after Cassandra's rejection and after unlocking Emprise du Lion.

Enjoy

* * *

The last spell is undoubtedly what sets the next series of events into motion and careering towards such a terrifyingly dramatic outcome.

No matter the efficiency that it has towards the enemy - either impaled on the sharp, gleaming spikes poking out from the frozen river or fleeing in terror - in the moment the wall of ice rises towards the sky, sprung from her will and lifting higher with a gesture of her raised arms - not so differently than a director gesturing the final, thunderous crescendo to the orchestra playing the opera would do -you curse the woman's name.

Taking advantage of the element at her disposal so abundantly, for once, might not have been a particularly wise choice. And it will only be rendered a thousand times more infuriating when the woman in question will admit, in a feverish state of honesty, that it was a conscious, deliberate decision all along.

And so, with Cole lying unresponsive, taking a nap face-down on the snow at the bank of the frozen river, having chosen the most inopportune moment to act so painfully,_ uselessly_ human for a spirit - and with Dorian intent in defending your other side from the last of the red templar's resistance - you are the only one left to witness her, the chosen one, the Herald of Andraste herself, the very same woman you are meant to protect and watch over on the field - disappear, as soon as the spell breaks, into the frozen river you have been standing on. Although you are fairly positive that with the echo carried by the valley in this region, the sound of the surface cracking open must have been heard all the way to Suledin Keep like a roaring thunder.

Louder than that there is only your shouting.

_"Inquisitor!"_

The warning, however, comes far too late.

You can only watch, helplessly, in paralyzing shock, as the river cracks and splits under her boots, bleeding water to the surface.

Time becomes a paradox in itself as it both slows down and rushes forward, and yet, you are still somehow able to take in every grim detail of the moment when she gets swallowed under the slab of black ice gaping under her like a monstrous, toothless, hungry mouth.

For how terrifying though, panic doesn't freeze you in place for longer than that first second.

It never worked like that for you.

You are action personified.

Maybe it's your training.

Maybe it's merely survival instinct.

Maybe it's... Something else entirely. Another feeling that you have been spending far too many energies trying to ignore.

But you swear that there is another innate force that has you sprint forward, so much faster than your heavy armor shouldn't allow you to. Something that has you abandon your longsword and shield, and bolt into a blur of motion. Something that springs from behind your sternum with a painful jolt, and that has you move faster than a Fade Step, yet just fast enough to reach her barely in time.

Call it divine intervention (again), or the Maker's watchful eye over his chosen one, or, as Evelyn herself will later oh so inelegantly stutter in between the shivers wracking her fragile, overextended body, and a grin twisted into the most painful grimace, "Fucking good luck, I guess", followed by a much quieter, nonetheless deeply grateful, "I knew someone was watching out for me." An assumption for which you won't even scold her, preoccupied as you'll be with keeping her dangerously low body temperature from dropping even further.

You catch her by the scruff of her neck, as if she were a pup, grabbing a handful of the collar of her battlemage coat and_ pulling._

By yet another miracle the ice doesn't shift around where you stand, allowing you to pull her up in one single, swift motion. The strength that possesses you is, once again, unexplainably otherworldly. You don't dare question it, you are just immensely grateful for it, even if you are too late, and by the time you get her out and physically drag her far enough to safety towards the bank of the river and on solid ground - or rather frozen snow - she is, unfortunately, already soaked through.

"Gone for some fishing, darling? You didn't happen to see some salmons, did you? As much as charred rabbit is growing on me, I have to say that I wouldn't mind a change in my diet."

You turn to see Dorian towering over the both of you, and if it wasn't for the churning worry eating at your insides, and the additional flash of anger that his casual approach and humorous comment elicits in the pit of your stomach, you would probably notice the breathlessness of fatigue in his voice, and recognize the grim concern etched on his handsome features, hiding just behind that tactical, protective layer of humor.

"J-just a-a b-bogf-f-fisher." Trevelyan, much to your vexation, answers.

Incredulous and indignant by the response - impossibly more by the pained smirk that she tries to shape her lips into - between the two of them you choose the one who isn't currently freezing to their death as the one to snap at.

"Does this seem like the time for jests to you?!" You accuse Dorian.

Much to his credit, the Tevinter Altus merely blinks. So unnervingly unthreatened by your bark. Then, with a calm and composure that is as infuriating as it is sobering and (not that you'll ever admit it out loud) also welcoming considering the dire circumstances, he crunches down at your side, unlatching a cold resistance tonic from his belt.

_Oh._

Of course.

_Of course!_ Why didn't you think of that _first?_

The shock seizing the Inquisitor's slim body seems to evade him as he pops open the flask, effortlessly tilting her head back, and pouring the content in her mouth without preamble.

Evelyn doesn't even resist. Just chokes and sputters a little, but otherwise gulps down the entire potion.

"It's the only one I had left, but it should be enough until we get her back to camp. I'll brew some more as soon as we arrive." Dorian informs, already moving to lift the Inquisitor up, and now the concern that had been there, masterfully hid behind that defensive jab of humor, finally emerges, becoming fully visible under his mustache at the sight of the Inquisitor's sudden, alarming paleness.

It's all you have to see to spring once again into action.

"I'll carry her." You insist at the last moment when you see him hooking one arm under her legs, almost shoving him out of the way in the haste to do so yourself. Surely, he is not disturbed (or even surprised) by your harshness and lack of manners. There simply is no time to waste. Especially not with something as useless and trivial as politeness.

You pick up the groaning, shivering block of ice the Inquisitor has turned into, with an ease that makes very clear how much adrenaline is aiding your efforts. Strong as you are, it should not be so easy picking the Inquisitor (soaked through layers and layers of clothes) up, and striding in the knee-deep snow so effortlessly.

"You get her staff," You instruct the Tevinter mage, and then, in afterthought, suddenly made aware of an additionally missing presence- "And also see to..."

Your gaze snaps towards the bank, right where you saw Cole lying unconscious but a minute ago.

In all honesty, you are not currently so worried or even much puzzled when all you see on the spot where you saw him last, is just a bodily imprint on the snow around the dead, monstrously transformed bodies of the red templars. At the moment, your concern is (selfishly) weighing far more heavily on someone else rather than on your fourth, elusive party member.

Still, you grit your teeth.

He couldn't choose a worse time to disappear.

"Where in the _Void _did he go?"

**. . .**

You have never been more grateful for the tactical decision of the Inquisitor to set camp at Sahrnia. But you refrain from thanking the Maker yet for the relatively short journey uphill. Because every moment that she spends here out in the cold and soaked in icy water could be fatal.

Mentally going through your survival training, you know there is only one thing to do in these situations...

"When we get back you'll have to-" Dorian starts, his mind running alongside your very similar trail of thoughts, apparently.

"I know exactly what I have to do, Tevinter." You snap, even though, for the first time, you don't mean to come out so cross. You might actually feel a bit bad. The fact that he doesn't say anything about it though, proves that he didn't take it personally. He is a smart, caring and attentive man, and - hopefully - he knows that your response is more of a result of far too many emotions battling within you at once. Warring among themselves for supremacy. And if (much to your mortification) your cheeks get that tiny bit flushed at the implication of what, _precisely_, must be done, it's because of the cold. Of the exertion. Of whatever other lie you tell yourself in order to get rid of the very inappropriate thoughts that start popping along with the images in your mind regarding _how _you are supposed to deal with this specific situation.

All those excuses, however, don't quite explain the jolt that starts in your chest and echoes in a series of flutters all the way down to your belly.

For how little you tolerate Solas' ever-superior presence and silently pestering, judgmental looks and loud opinions, you are actually cursing the fact that the Inquisitor has decided not to bring him along with you for this journey. His healing skills would have been much useful and immensely appreciated, definitely worth his scowling and all the admonishments he would have most definitely reserved for the situation.

As soon as you walk into Sahrnia the whole camp explodes into a panicked frenzy at the sight of the Inquisitor cradled in your arms like a child, barely conscious, dripping icy water and shivering all over, teeth clinking in time with each shudder wracking her frame.

You, from your part, are infinitely grateful that your instincts haven't yet fled and left you with nothing but the cold embrace of panic and desperation to cling onto.

Orders are shouted all around, but you allow no one else other than Dorian to enter the Inquisitor's tent (where a rather mysterious pile of furs awaits you, and where a fire has already been lit in the small, portable iron stove..._ odd_) and help you strip her down to her smallclothes before laying her down on the bedroll.

"I'll leave you to it." He says just as you all but start tearing your armor off, piece by piece, unbuckling strap after strap, dismantling plate after plate - for once without the most minimal care for the equipment. Making a messy pile of metal and leather on the floor in record time.

"In the meantime, I'm going to prepare some more of that tonic." He announces, and with another, compassionate -_guilty?_ \- look to your violently-shivering, horribly pale Inquisitor, he leaves to gather the necessary herbs to brew his restoring concoction, granting you privacy and even mercifully sparing you of his wit on the way out of the tent. For once, you might have actually appreciated and welcomed the distraction provided by a joke from the doom-dense air filling the tent and rattling with the panic burning in your lungs.

"Don't you dare die on me, Inquisitor." You hiss threateningly through your teeth as you lay the heavy furs over her shivering body and slip under the covers yourself to provide that skin-to-skin warmth that is the only cure for such ill.

"Pain. Cracked and sharp."

_What the-_

The only reason why you don't promptly spring upright, sword in hand, in nothing but your knickers, is because - under that initial puzzlement and start at the unexpected third presence in the tent - you do recognize _that voice._

You know to _whom _it belongs.

And you also know who likes to speak in riddles because of a penchant for plucking people's thoughts from their heads. _Especially _if they happen to be in pain and thus momentarily unable to voice such thoughts for themselves.

_"It hurts. Pierces me through and through like a thousand blades and spears. Unbleeding, lacerating, throbbing cuts. Can't breathe."_

Cole translates each single shudder, each labored, staggered, choked breath coming from the Inquisitor, from the spot where he has appeared (seemingly out of thin air), sitting cross-legged in the darkest corner of the tent; head ducked, his large hat tipped down with it, casting his young features into the anonymity granted by the shadows closing around on you.

Even though you have (inexplicably) managed to keep it at bay until now, helplessness rears its ugly head, reaching out straight from his words, ready to wrap around your throat, seize you in place,_ squeeze,_ and sink its sharp, poisonous claws into you.

You chase that paralyzing feeling away by holding Trevelyan tighter against you. Cursing and praying harder against the coldness radiating from her body and seeping into your own bones. And somehow, in its simplicity - or maybe thanks to the amount of unmentionable expletives and just-as-many threats and prayers that you mutter in your head in a combination of Common and Nevarran - after a few, nightmarishly long minutes, the violent, convulsing shivers wracking Evelyn's lite body start to subside into quieter shudders.

Her frantic, choked, cough-sharp breathing grows gradually, encouragingly more and more regular, even if it's not yet anywhere near close to steady, but it becomes deep enough for you to distinguish the sounds that it does when she respectively inhales and exhales through her nose; a series of tremulous breaths accompanied by the occasional mewled whimper.

"That's good." You praise her. "Keep breathing. Keep breathing." A simple instruction. An order. Another prayer. The desperation that it holds soothed only when you feel the space between her shoulderblades swell beneath your hand with her next, long, quivering inhale.

The helplessness closing around your throat loosens its wicked hold when Evelyn leans in even closer, (most likely without consciousness of it, given the way she has been toeing the dangerous line between awareness and oblivion); blindly, instinctively seeking for more of the warmth that your own body is lending her.

The cold tip of her nose brushes against your collarbone, and when a contrastingly lukewarm, trembling puff of air caresses the side of your neck... it affects you far more than it shouldn't.

A muted gasp slips past your lips as a shiver shoots down your spine, and it has nothing to do with the cold. If anything, all of a sudden, that spot of your neck- that small portion of contact, is left_ sizzling_.

With the shared warmth spreading under the furs and covers, your bodies become as malleable as clay; molding of their own accord into each other's, fitting curve against curve, until you become painfully aware of each soft point of contact.

Even when no space seems to be left, she presses closer still, and you almost choke at the intimacy of a slim thigh fitting between your muscular ones.

"I-Inquisitor?"

_"Embrium and leather,"_ Cole whispers thoughtfully in response from the same corner of the tent where he has been witnessing the whole scene as a silent spectator. Until now.

"Polishing oil, salty sweat, steel and rose water. Strong and soft." He recites. "Thorns as beautiful as the petals she keeps folded around her soul. So warm._ Safe._"

That final statement is immediately followed - or rather completed - by a sigh coming from where the Inquis- from where _Evelyn _has tucked her head into the crook of your neck, and the weight of that very specific adjective hits you in the chest with the same force it does in the pit of your stomach. A flutter of the most marvelous feeling against a fresh, nauseous pang of guilt.

Because that's just it, isn't it?

You actually_ failed_ in your duty of keeping her safe.

"No, you didn't." Cole contests, just loud enough in his quietness for you to pick the note of puzzlement in his voice and, at the same time, for him to be able to also convey a certainty that you lack. Enough to spark an itchy flare of anger lodged behind your sternum. Caught between one breath and the next.

"Yes,_ I did._" You counter, deliberately out loud, forcing the admission through gritted teeth, because knowing that he can pluck thoughts and feelings from you as effortlessly as withering petals from daisies, is already unsettling enough - a violation that is way more than you can bear at the moment.

"But you _kept her_ safe!" The spirit vehemently insists, deciding to be all the more persuasive by retracing rather accurately every single one of your actions during the battle when you were ambushed on the frozen Elfsblood river; from the moment you charged both the Knight shadow and the Horror heading for the Inquisitor, up to the point where Cole himself was unfortunately put off the fight by a stray sentinel that had been strategically hiding on the cliff above him. Which reminds you...

"How are y-"

"I am well." He answers before you can even ask. Of course. As annoying as it is though, and as puzzled as you are by the lack of any visible injury on the young body he has claimed for himself, the news is relieving. Failing the Inquisitor is unforgivable as it is. But being the second in command and failing two comrades at once (no matter the questionable nature of the other, or your lingering doubts about it), would have shaken your already frayed faith and made you question your suitability as a decent member of the team and whether it is wise and adequate to stick by the Inquisitor's side as her second if you are unable to perform your duties in the moment of need.

"She considers you her most valued companion. Both in and out of the battlefield." The spirit offers in response to your supposed-to-be-private, inner, self-deprecating debate, and this time there is no spark of annoyance triggered by the information (offered so easily that it is difficult to question its sincerity), but something else entirely; that same sizzling warmth starting behind your sternum with a stuttered beat of your heart and spreading slowly down your limbs.

"And she delights in your company." He adds. And then, oh so quietly that you almost miss it, "Perhaps_ more_ than she thinks she should. That's what she has been chastising herself over."

This time, the harsh stutter in your chest is the opposite of that pleasant, tingling sizzle of warmth. It has nothing of that gently fluttering quality you have started to experience more and more often around her whenever she so much as glanced at you or flashed you one of those brilliant smiles of dubious nature. This time, it is a sharp screeching halt that makes your insides twist on themselves upon hearing such confession; silently carrying the pain and doubt it has caused her.

You swallow hard. Something foul and acid. Like a reflux of bile but worse. The taste that lingers in your mouth is far more awful and bitter.

Regret.

"It's my fault she has been struggling so hard." You confess. "_I_ am the one to blame." For breaking her heart in order to preserve your own cracked one, you don't say. But you don't need to. It's actually... surprisingly relieving not having to specify for once.

"You deserve a chance to be happy." The spirit declares with a conviction that you don't know whether you should laugh or cry upon hearing it.

The sound that makes its way past your lips without your consent is something in between.

A choked, unamused snort that gets met with the most deafening silence.

It lasts long enough that you could almost pretend the conversation (and the complex, troubling, confusing feelings it has inevitably stirred), didn't happen. But Compassion is nothing if not determined. And, by nature, It cannot stand for pretended comfort.

Your pain, same as your struggle, is so real that it has grown almost tangible.

You hear more than see when he stands and steps closer, only choosing to look up at him when his shadow comes into view. And the moment it does, your body flinches in recognition of the reason why he usually feels the urge to approach someone_ physically_.

"Don't worry," He assures, the hand that was already stretching out towards you stopping in mid-air at the first flare of panic brushing your mind. "I just want to take the pain away. Not the memory of what happened." He informs, so enviably calmly.

A generous, tempting offer.

Or so most would think.

Ignorance is a blessing, or so they say, but... Even though a small part of you would gladly forget how horrible it felt knowing that despite your preventive measures you still have caused the Inquisit-_ Evelyn_ pain because of your own doubts that led you to a rejection, you know that you would never be able to forgive yourself if you indeed chose the easy way out and potentially erase completely something that still has a chance to recover. Something that has kept taking form despite your attempts to ignore it all. It's still too early to make out the image beyond the blurred lines forming it, but... the edges are defined just enough that you can follow the contour and perceive the picture that you know those lines _must_ compose, relying on the rhythm beaten so insistingly by your heart. It's an imprint as familiar as the terrifying feelings that have taken residence in your chest, and that flutter ablaze with every look, every smile that she direct at you.

Cole must be right.

While you are still in doubt about the whole _"deserving happiness"_ part, you know that you can't smother the possibility of a second chance. If anything, the events of today, more than any other day, have taught you that you might not have another chance to listen to your heart. To further explore... whatever _this_ might be.

Compassion might have probed and swayed your ever-stubborn mind, but when at the mercy of doubt, Faith comes once again to your aid. You rely on it. Clinging to that same feeling that has a smile twitch at the corner of your mouth when you see and hear the way Evelyn murmurs contently as she burrows herself further under the furs and folds her body safely against your front, seeking for more of that warmth springing from the affection that had you (unconsciously) run your hand soothingly up and down her naked back for the entire duration of your inner struggle.

You close your eyes and take in a steadying breath before glancing up at the spirit hovering over you both.

No matter what you might still think of him and his nature, his earnestness and the way he fidgets with his fingers, shifting his weight from one boot to the other, mimicking uncertainty in your prolonged silence, looking as young and as human as the form he has slipped into from the Fade, has your lips quirk into another, brief, pseudo-smile.

"The pain is part of the memory." You explain at last, and the words, for once, come easily. "I want to remember how it felt. All of it. For today's events have given me a new perspective on an image I now realize I have been framing wrongly all along." Which is not so surprising, given your tendency to be shortsighted to the most obvious displays. But there is strength in acknowledging your mistake. That's why you don't feel the slightest embarrassment or shame in admitting it.

In response to your admittance, the spirit tilts his head down, eyes closed in consideration of your words, and this time you aren't so opposed to his presence searching your mind. You may not be used to it (nor you think you'll ever be), nonetheless, you allow him to follow the trail of thoughts that has lead you to your final decision- to your greedy willingness to better understand these feelings that Evelyn keeps eliciting in you even with the simplest gesture and the most innocent (as rare as they ar,e compared to her far more frequent sly, flirty ones) smiles.

As seconds drip by, you find yourself holding your breath.

Inexplicably.

As if waiting for judgment to be delivered. All while wondering if he can see how this pain,_ this guilt,_ makes this... whatever it is you are feeling... so much more _real_. As if shaped into a tangible thing.

At last, he nods.

"Yes," He confirms, barely above a whisper. And finally, you breathe again.

"Pain. And fear. Guilt. But also admiration. Fondness. Love. All tangled up. Can't tell them apart yet. Like folded petals caressed by the dew, blossoming open under the warmth of the first sun rays. Like Regalyan. But... different._ Fuller._"

And there, at that tremendously accurate choice of words, your breath hitches in your throat. A mutedly-soft, startled hiccup triggered by the tumult of emotions suddenly flowing through your veins, bursting like a dam from the muscle beating frantically in your chest, stumbling and spluttering to keep up with that overwhelming flood.

The spirit looks at you then. Directly at you. And smiles.

"Remember." He concedes.

And then he is gone.

The shape of his human body replaced by a faint, otherworldly blur of blue smoke in the blink of an eye.

You release another, longer breath, probably the one you have been unconsciously holding ever since he manifested in the tent seemingly out of nowhere, just like it's his habit.

"Cassandra..."

A softly groaned mumble and an equally quiet stir coming from the tight bundle in your arms is all it's necessary to redirect your attention, spiking up your alertness once more.

"Inquisitor," You look down just in time to see a pair of blue eyes flutter open, barely by a slit. She regains consciousness with a couple of bleary blinks, getting accustomed to the dim light provided by the few candles resting on the makeshift desk located on the opposite corner, before locking with yours with a new, sudden, sharper, and far more vigilant focus. Her lips stretching into a slow, exhausted, yet brilliant grin as she scans your face.

"You look lovely."

Maker preserves you, as air, once again, eludes your next breath at the compliment; as unexpected as it is earnest in its simplicity.

You swoon a bit and instinctively think something like "thank you". Instead, you glower at her at the reminder of her recklessness, returning the sentiment with an eloquent, cordial, exceptionally well-mannered and complimentary "You look like shit."

It's either the utterance of a word you never use (so very worthy of a Nevarran princess' - and Divine's Hand - vocabulary) or the overall response that earns you the reaction that follows your comment.

"Such a flatterer." She even dares to grin again, albeit far more weakly, still weary with trauma. A sight so dear and vulnerable that, despite its fragility, it's strong enough to reach deep within you, bypass all of your defenses, and tug at your heartstrings.

Consequently, the tenderness that the feeling elicits gets showed oh-so-appropriately in the way you glower harder at her in retaliation. Especially when, with a suspicious, uncharacteristic self-consciousness, she tells you, "I must admit that this is _not_ how I would have preferred you seeing me in my smallclothes for the first time."

_Maker..._

Honestly though, you aren't even surprised by the fact that she is joking over the direness of the current circumstances.

"I may have something far more elegant and a lot less practical kept aside for this kind of occasion." She flirts, shamelessly, even flashing you a sleepy wink, and you are just glad that, from her position, she is most likely unable to see the flush that creeps up your neck at the image that she has just teased in your mind.

You think of Orlesian black lace... and then almost choke on your own tongue when you gulp.

Her smirk widens knowingly.

_Ugh._

She just can't help herself, can she?

"How you and Dorian haven't found your way to one another given your common fondness for jests and dark humor in life-threatening situations-"_ and flirting,_ you silently add in your head, grumpily, because it's not easy to ignore the continuous back and forth of flirty bantering that passes between the two, "-is beyond me." The sigh that you release, however, is more out of relief than exasperation or annoyance (or even something as frivolous and ridiculous as... jealousy).

Because she is_ here._

She is_ alive. _

And despite what she has risked with her recklessness, she is doing better. The fact that she is already joking (for how infuriating) proves it.

She is going to be all right. And sooner than you would like it she'll be attempting (and failing in the most miserable and hilarious ways) to climb the slippery, snow-covered rocks at the foot of some mountain in search of a shortcut for your next destination uphill instead of following the main route.

For now though, you take comfort in knowing that her core temperature is slowly stabilizing. In feeling her body regaining a healthy warmth. Thanking the Heavens when you notice that even her cheeks seem to be starting to recover their natural flush. Although... that might just be the chiaroscuro trick played by the candlelight dancing around the tent.

Maker...

Even like this, nearly hypothermic, barely kept out of reach from the cold clutches of death, she still looks lovely.

So distracting the effect of the light on her skin is, that you almost miss entirely her response to your comment.

Her chuckle, however - an uncharacteristically deep, yet sweetly raspy rumble that vibrates within the cavity of her chest - redirects your attention.

"Oh well, what can I say," She croaks, shrugging nonchalantly, smirking faintly. "He has _a very specific_ type. And even though I'm not as... _selective _as he is,_ I-I..._" The sly smile drops then, softening unexpectedly into something that has your heartbeat thundering with anticipation, even harder and faster when she reaches out with one hand from under the furs wrapped all around you to stroke the side of your face.

Cool fingers trace the scar carved in your cheek with a feather-light touch, and accompanying the gesture, a look of adoration - so tremendously close to veneration - that you feel utterly undeserving to be at the receiving end of, and yet, selfishly, you find yourself basking in the warmth of her affectionate gaze anyway.

"Let's just say that my heart has been stubbornly set on one person alone ever since Haven."

You swallow. Throat suddenly dry and heart pretty much near ready to explode in your chest with the magnitude of the sentiments that swell once more at the oh-so-vulnerably uttered confession.

There is only one answer you can give her.

Only one way you can respond to that look of absolute adoration.

Only one way you can meet the hope that has her gaze dart, swiftly (and for once so uncharacteristically bashfully) down to your lips.

You lean down and, to that unasked question that you have read in her eyes, you offer the only answer you have. All your emotions boiled down to one simple action at last.

And when your lips finally touch, the doubts that have been holding you back seem to melt away. Dissolving into nothingness like the condensation of warm breath into cold air.

If only you had a way of knowing- of preparing and bracing yourself for the way your entire body lits up with a sharp shock at the first, tentative brush of a questioning tongue along the seam of your lips though... Instead, you must endure every single one of those sparks that start from the back of your neck, sizzling down your spine, and tingling all the way down to the tip of your toes, not without coiling into something considerably more consistent down in your belly along the way; a familiar pressure- an unyielding tug, adding to the same energy tightening your chest and making your heart flutter so magnifically.

As the kiss deepens, your bodies slot closer until you find yourself half-straddling the Inquisitor, pinning her to the bedroll beneath you.

Cole was right.

It _is _different.

And you revel in all those differences. In the softness of the body beneath you. In the gentle curves that one of your hands encounter during its first exploration under the thick furs. Mapping the sinuous coast that is her side. You relish in the smoothness of her skin, in the sweetness of her lips. The leisurely of it all... The act of savoring it and allowing that blossoming warmth to spread downwards.

You shift some more on top of her, seeking for a better angle and, once again, an instinct - so raw and primal - takes possession of your body and makes you roll your hips forward in the moment one of your thighs slots perfectly between her parted ones.

An equal amount of thrill and disappointment collide within you when the gesture (mostly unconscious), forces you to break apart as Evelyn moans, tearing her mouth away from you with a gasp mirroring the same shock of pleasure that has flared in your groin.

You grind one more time and-

"Cassandra..." She moans your name like a prayer, and the tone used during this... intimate moment makes the blasphemy all the more delightful to hear.

Yearning to elicit that sound again, to feel her cling harder onto you, you aim your lips to her neck just as your hips roll forward one more time, this time out of their own will.

Your reward is delivered with a breathy gasp. With blunt fingernails digging into your back. With toned, slender legs parting further to grant you more space.

But then, despite the encouraging reactions, just when your nostrils catch the first, vague, musky-honeyed notes of arousal-

"Cassandra, w-wait..."

It is the note of urgency that comes attached to the request what manages to pierce through the thick fog of lust that was starting to cloud your thoughts and judgment.

You pull back at once, as if slapped by reality and shaken back into the present. Flustered. Mortified. And coiled tightly with the need still stirring hotly in the depths of your belly.

"Forgive me, I-"

Just as you try to lift yourself up however and put what can be considered a more acceptable and less compromising distance between your heated bodies, Evelyn summons whatever strength she had left in her exhausted body and uses it to pull you on top on her once more, forcefully enough to make you gasp at the collision, locking her legs around your waist to secure you in place, bringing you so intimately close that your pelvises brush in a way that makes it impossibly hard not to react knowing how exquisitely she would respond to the friction.

"Don't leave." She pleas. "I want to- Maker... I want_ you_," She breathes emphatically, holding you tighter and bringing your bodies even closer, making it even harder for you to not give in to that instinct. "But..."

She bites down on her lower lip then, eyes darting timidly away, looking everywhere but at you and... bringing you back within the confines of the tent in the process.

_Oh._

Of course.

The whole situation...

You blink away the remaining veil of lust, fully re-entering reality, reacknowledging your surroundings, remembering the circumstances that have brought you to such a compromising position in the first place...

The reminder weights down on you, smothering some of those flames blazing in your belly, but not extinguishing them completely.

"I guess we both got a bit carried away." She says through a quiet, bashful chuckle, and with the haze of lust lifting the rest of the way, you are once again able to see how weary and drained she looks even in the feeble candlelight. Eyelids drooping despite the efforts to keep them open, features smoothing unmistakably into drowsiness.

"You should get some rest, Inquisitor." You encourage her, unable to hold back a smile at the sight of her slowly succumbing and yet stubbornly protesting. Not that you expected anything less from her.

"Mh," She acknowledges, protestingly, unappealed by the prospect. "Pretty sure that if I fall asleep I'll wake up and find out that this had all been a dream. Some cruel trick played by a Desire demon, tempting me with the one person I have been longing for so fiercely." She confesses, gaze losing focus, words sluggish with impending sleep. It renders the scene (and her irrational concerns regarding what just happened between the two of you) all the more entertaining to witness, in the most precious way.

No point in insisting.

With her, you have learned better.

The situation warrants a compromise.

"What if I promise to stay?"

The suggestion seems to be enough to tug her - for how briefly - from under the overwhelming pull of the Fade dragging her into its realm.

"You give me your word, oh Lady Seeker?"

She may adorn and lace her question with that same familiar, warm note of playfulness, but you are still able to hear the vulnerability hiding underneath its warmth. Especially with the cold exhaustion clinging so fiercely to her bones.

It matters not.

Whatever the case, in fact, there is once again only one answer you can offer her. Although... when the chance to tease her presents at the same time, you can't resist the temptation. Nor you can find a reason why you should resist it, given all the fun she usually has at your expenses in similar situations.

"Someone is going to make sure you don't run out chasing the first nug that passes by-" You haven't even finished that a laugh bursts free from her chest. "-or decide to go mining every rare mineral you happen to stumble across. Or surrender to curiosity and go find out what the source of that roar we heard coming from Leontine's ring is about." You both know what it is, actually. There is only one mighty creature capable of making such a thunderous, screeching noise that can echo through an entire Valley. Still, when Evelyn snorts - amused more than offended by the creative (yet rather realistic) summarization of her favorite activities through your journeys - your heart swells some more, almost painfully, with a surge of affection.

"You still haven't answered though." She points out, sounding and looking far more tentative and nervous than the half-smirk tugging sleepily at the corner of her mouth might deceivingly suggest- at least to those who don't know her as well as _you _do.

When her gaze darts away, so awkwardly, adorably self-consciously, you reach out and cup her cheek in your palm, wordlessly encouraging her to meet your gaze.

"I promise." You vow when those stunning blue eyes lock cautiously with yours.

And the kiss that you plant on her lips, is as much as the need to reassure her, to seal such an effortless promise, as it is self-indulgence. Because now that you have had a taste of their warm sweetness and moist softness, you simply _cannot _resist her. And Evelyn, now free of the burden of doubt, is far too content to return the sentiment and sample the flavor that she finds on your own lips, flatteringly savoring their blandness as if she were tasting a rare wine.

The kiss is far different- far more innocent and infinitely softer from the heated one you have shared merely a minute ago. But the gentleness and softness of it still affect you, although in a far more tender way. In fact, instead of bolting straight to your core and eliciting that sharp pang of arousal, it lingers in your chest, weaving between your ribs, and finding its way into the chambers of your heart, where the resulting warmth nestles and glows like a lantern for the rest of the night.

You spend it at her side. As vowed.

Cradling her frame.

Sharing your warmth.

Watching over her.

Finding yourself matching her slow, even breathing and observing mesmerized the way her eyelashes flutter as she dreams, until your own body reminds you of the fatigue of the eventful day and, eventually, succumbs to the irresistible pull of sleep, following her into the infinite depths of the Fade.

**. . .**

Morning comes slowly in the Emprise.

Dawn itself seems rather reluctant to arrive. The moon lingers in the sky as its counterpart's rising gives the impression to be slowed down by the same cold seizing the region. And besides the few soldiers keeping watch, with the rest of the camp still silent given the early hour, everything around you seems to awake in a sluggish crawl.

Well, everything at the sole exception of Her Worship Lady Trevelyan herself, of course.

"I thought we agreed you would spend the morning inside to recover." The supposed-to-be scolding gets reduced to barely a sigh of mild disappointment though, taking away any bite from the reprimand. Your concern mildly put at ease by the sight of the thick, heavy bear furs that she has (luckily) wisely decided to wrap around herself before stepping out of the tent.

Briefly, distractedly, you wonder how her lithe mage-build can manage to support their weight and not bend or straight-out sink under their heaviness. Before you can pay the thought any more attention however - and wonder if she might be partially leaning on her magic to endure such burden - she is already at your side, wordlessly taking from your hands the steamy cup of herbal tea (spiked with some more of Dorian's miraculous restoring tonic) - that you have just poured and were about to bring her, having learned her routine and habits by now, including the worrying amount of honey she likes to stirs in her morning tea.

Her eyes flutter closed as she brings the cup to her lips, and the soft, humming sound that she makes in the back of her throat at the spiced, bittersweet, licorice-like taste tingling on her tongue with the first sip, has your mind blank out of whatever other half-hearted admonishment you had ready upon seeing her up and about, carelessly-_ shamelessly _ignoring your "orders" about mandatory rest.

After a second, more generous sip, she sets the cup down on the requisitions' table - just narrowly avoiding the couple of parchments still waiting to be unrolled, and then, with her eyes still closed, she tilts her head back at the sky, exposing the long, delicate, sensual column of her throat. Humming in contentment. Relishing in the freshness of the air caressing her face, brushing the errant strands of golden-brown hair that have spilled free from her bun, and filling her lungs as she inhales deeply enough to reach that pleasantly-burning limit.

"This early hour of the morning..." She breathes, exhaling a long, thick puff of condensation, slowly blinking her eyes open to gaze at the stunning effect played on the layered clouds by the sluggishly rising sun. "And this light... make me oh so dreamy."

You turn your own gaze towards the mountains cresting at the horizon. They are not as tall or as majestic as the ones stretching on the Frostbacks, and the view is not as breathtaking as the one surrounding Skyhold, but it's still a sight to behold on its own, even without taking in consideration the marvelously beautiful effect that the dawning lights play on their profile. Smoothing the sharp edges of the cliffs and flattering them with the more subtle notes of blue and pink, making them glow something ethereal.

_Yes..._

"It's a truly beautiful sight." You easily (if not poetically or even particularly eloquently) agree.

You can certainly see the appeal.

Everything is so silent at this hour. Frozen in place. So uniquely stunning.

Even the wind is reduced to nothing but a mute murmur slipping through the shivering branches of the bared trees.

The only indication that time itself has not ceased to exist, like it deceivingly appears to have done, is given by the lazy flutter of snowflakes falling silently on the ground, and by the beats of your own heart, thrumming all the stronger in your ears when you realize that Evelyn is no longer gazing at the mountains peaking in the distance, or even at the Valley spread before you beyond the frozen river.

"I couldn't agree more."

Instead, she is gazing right at_ you_. Smiling so tenderly, and looking so infinitely (incomprehensibly) more captivated.

Your heart stutters and, accordingly, consequently, your breath catches in your throat, too.

"Cassandra," She starts, tentatively, yet inching closer far more purposefully than her hesitant tone leads on. Close enough for you to feel the teasing whisper of the blissfully reassuring warmth coming off her. Close enough for your chilled nostrils to catch the sweet, ripe notes of honeysuckle and the far more fragrant, resinous ones of Crystal Grace clinging to her skin and transferred to the furs wrapped around her frame.

Close enough for you to be able to see, even in the dim light, the lovely, faint constellation of freckles dusting across the bridge of her nose and rosy cheekbones.

"Yes?" You (perhaps a bit too eagerly) encourage her, expectantly, taking a half-step closer yourself. Beckoned by that intoxicating fragrance and the mystical light rippling in the depth of her blue eyes like fade-touched Veridium.

She grins. Slow and big.

"Allegra, Portia-"

_Oh for the love of-_

This woman!

Andraste have mercy...

You should have_ known_.

That sly smile alone should have served you as a warning.

"_Don't._" You glower at her. But of course, it's to no avail.

If anything, she meets your threatening, warning scowl with an even wider smile. All dimples and sparkles of mischief glimmering all the brighter in her eyes.

So very few things are just as infuriating. And yet, at the same time, in spite of your irritation, it's a sight that you couldn't find more charming.

"Calogera-"

Enough of this already.

There is only one way to effectively put an end to such nonsense.

And, in all honesty, it's not like you haven't thought about it.

It's not like you haven't pretended to not have actually_ fantasized_ about it ever since you woke up in a blissfully intimate tangle of naked limbs and overheated skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. Once again you find yourself rummaging through the very fresh memories (and just-as-vivid) details, still sizzling as ardently as embers in your mind.

Without warning, you hook a gloved hand on the back of her neck and erase that last inch of distance left between your bodies by pulling her into a fierce kiss- you have always been a creature of action, after all - effectively interrupting her teasing and managing, once again (much to your utter delight) to catch her off guard.

Despite the force with which you collide, however, the element of surprise doesn't affect much her balance, and not just because you hold her close.

She may gasp and stumble a bit, but from the way she recollects herself and leans against you, parting her lips in invitation and readily deepening the kiss after that beat of startled stillness, you can tell that, apparently, she had been thinking about this probably as much as you have, and the subtle taste of uncertainty that you catch at first on her lips before it gets swept away by an overwhelming wave of relief as she melts against you, also tells you that a part of her was actually trying not to hope so ardently for it. For this. For such possibility. For... Reciprocity.

Morning light has a tendency to make one person chance perspective on delicate subjects after all.

You cannot blame her for reasoning in such way.

For being so caution and protecting herself by masking her vulnerability with the humor you know she uses as a shield.

It's quite the opposite.

In fact, at the sight of such a flimsy, ghostly vulnerability, you find yourself reaching out for it. Like catching a butterfly in a cupped hand before it can fly away. Sheltering it protectively rather than holding it hostage. Just long enough to admire and appreciate the beauty and the power that it paradoxically owns in its fragility.

It's a bit foreign, witnessing this delicate side of her. Watching how it emerges from whatever depth she kept it hidden for Andraste-knows-how-long for the sake of self-preservation.

It deserves to be cherished.

And you feel just as inclined to protect it as you are towards her whenever you witness her throwing herself head-first into battle. Which happens far, far too frequently. Whether it is a Pride demon in the Fade, a red templar Knight lurking in a forgotten cave, or a bloody ram strolling gleefully and carefree in the woods.

Not so inappropriate as a comparison either way, you believe, given her recklessness.

After all, they do say that war and love are drafted on similar rules.

The only exception is that there is no land to conquest here.

She has already breached the barriers lifted around your heart. And you, for your part, have already won her affections, (she has been pretty shameless about showing them, too) - by doing nothing beyond what your role at her side requires, which makes such affection all the more sincere in its lack of expectation, you believe.

When, eventually - after what felt like a short, blissful eternity - you pull away from the kiss (reluctantly yet necessarily, at least according to the burning in your lungs), you are only distracted by the furious flush of red that you are well aware has flared on your face - by the sight of the mighty Inquisitor, Andraste's chosen one, looking about ready to faint for lack of air.

"Whoa..." Luckily, she exhales but a moment later with that breathy exclamation. Blinking. Positively stunned. Looking as dazed as you have never,_ ever_ seen her before. A result-_ an accomplishment_ that you hadn't set, and yet, the unexpectedness of it is enough to inflate you with a profound sense of satisfaction. A guilty, albeit deeply, delightfully enjoyable sort of pride.

It lasts until she blinks the stupor away and that same infuriatingly charming, utterly beautiful grin stretches once more across her face. Wide enough to dig dimples on her cheeks.

"Sooo..."

_Ugh._

"Should I take this as a change of heart from your part and as your official permission for me to properly start courting you,_ Seeker Pentaghast_?"

So. utterly._ insufferable._

You roll your eyes, trying your very best to smother the smile threatening to show itself through what now is nothing but a ghosty wrinkle of annoyance reshaping itself into endearment at her behavior.

"You know," You tell her, unable to not seize the golden opportunity to try and regain some of your dignity back by teasing_ her_ a little for a change. "It's a good thing that Leliana has brought Lady Montilyet in the Inquisition to handle the diplomatic talks for our cause. Your cheekiness would surely have made us more enemies than allies."

For some reason that you should have definitely foreseen though (given her particular disposition and unique brand of eccentricity) judging by the smirk quirking the corner of her mouth, the comment seems to please her immensely.

"Always had a penchant for getting into trouble." She concedes, shrugging helplessly. Grinning disarmingly.

So_ wondrously_ infuriating...

You groan again, and she chuckles, voice still a bit rough with sleep and strained with the tiredness of the previous day - nonetheless she sounds and looks endlessly amused, just like she always does whenever she manages to fluster you. The blessed, demonic woman...

That's why it catches so by surprise when, all of a sudden, her expression softens into something so very, unsettlingly vulnerable as she takes an uncharacteristically tentative step closer.

"...just like I always had a predisposition for falling for someone I'm not supposed to." She concludes, so very quietly, wearing none of that enviably attractive confidence that she usually dons so effortlessly when she reaches out, just as tentatively, to brush her fingers along your gloved ones. Barely a caress, before she retracts, as if afraid that you would recoil; spooked like a wild creature.

You have the tendency to act like one. Occasionally.

Like when your leader catches you reading terrible smutty literature, and you try to hide it in the most ungraceful way, for example.

But even so, you couldn't react the same way. Not right now. Not even if the instinct is infused deep in your very bone marrow.

Encased in an armor forged from layers above layers of old pains meant to preventively remind you of the agony of loss when you so much as try to lower your defenses. The very same defenses that she has torn down without even trying...

You have spent far too long pretending that her proximity never affected you the way it does. But this time you don't suppress the spark that runs up your arm at that minimal contact. Tingling between your skin and the leather and metal of your gauntlet before settling cozily down in your belly.

You swallow (as if it would be enough to ease your nerves and the frantic beats of your heart thrumming at the base of your throat), and then, compelled by a merciful surge of braveness that you don't dare to question or (worse) let go to waste, you reach out and take her hand in yours.

Even just the way her breath catches a bit, shuddering so delightfully at the purposefulness and meaningfulness of the simple (yet clearly unexpected) gesture, has your own breathing stutter in your lungs, and your pulse spike up with that same glorious sentiment that has your heart swell almost to the bursting point.

You'll no longer ignore it, you vow. Or pretend that this doesn't affect you so strongly as some kind of defense mechanism triggered in order to protect yourself and save you in case things were to turn dire and you were to lose yet another person that you lo-

"Oh! I almost forgot,"

It's too late to steer your thoughts and the beats of your heart away from that cluster of old, dangerous emotions, memories, and still-not-completely-healed wounds, but Evelyn's lovely, gracious voice pulls you back from their depths regardlessly. The bright note of excitement in the quiet exclamation clashing with the secretive, little (_flustered?_) smile, that quivers at the corner of her mouth. A sight that is enough to elicit yet another stutter within your chest.

But it's still nothing compared to the painful way the muscle there contained tightens on itself when, after a moment spent searching under the heavy furs and into the pockets of her battlemage coat that she is wearing underneath, she presents a delicate paper flower.

And not_ any _flower either.

In fact, it seems to have been masterfully folded_ into-_

You squint, and then gasp in cognizance as soon as you get a better look at it.

"Is _that_...?"

The inquisitor simply nods, head ducked, bottom lip caught timidly between her teeth, looking as abashed as you weren't aware she could be, given the boldness she constantly oozes with.

"A Nevarran orchid." She confirms in a feeble whisper that is barely heard above the wind that has picked up and started hissing around you.

All it's necessary to take away its sudden, freezing chill however, is the warmth of the gesture itself. So kind and darling. So... pure in its earnestness.

"I came across one in a botany book back in Skyhold's library when I was looking for ways to improve the duration and efficiency of my potions, and... Well..." She shrugs, feigning nonchalance, using the casualness to mask the cracks starting to appear in her collected composure.

"Roses are lovely. But not quite as rare or as stunning and resilient as this unique beauty right here." She states, and then, summoning one powerful surge of confidence worthy of her- worthy of the woman whose admiration you feel towards has led your heart (uncaring of your stubbornness) to swell into something far greater than platonic admiration - she finally lifts her head to meet your gaze.

"I couldn't think of anything more appropriate." She says.

The acrobatics that your heart does from within the cage where it finds itself imprisoned despite its vigorous attempts to break free, are above any show put by even the most famous Orlesian circus known for pulling the most entertaining (and potentially fatal) stunts.

Your lips part, your mind grasping blindly for an answer,_ anything,_ but no words come ready. The only noise that slips past, sounds more like another breathless gasp triggered by her thoughtfulness.

Evelyn, for her part, looks all the more pleased to have rendered you this speechless.

But it's still nothing compared to the way you react to what she does next.

Firstly, she takes a moment to focus, closing her eyes and breathing calmly, patiently, in that same way she usually does whenever she is reaching for the power beyond the Veil and channeling her mana.

You expect to witness the unmistakable glowing pulse of magic fluttering from her hands, only to be completely caught off guard when, instead, she simply puffs her cheeks and blows her breath.

You can only watch, mesmerized, as tiny crystals draft from between her lips in a gentle gust to encase the paper flower in a thin layer of ice.

The effect is nothing less than spectacular. It catches the sun rays filtering timidly through the clouds with breathtaking beauty. Shattering the light into a rainbow. Shards of blue, green, red, pink, orange and everything in between.

"There." She smiles, twirling the flower around its stem to examine the spell, looking satisfied by the result and pleased (even if considerably less impressed than you are) by the stunning, multi-colored, glowing effect.

"I promise I'm going to gift you real, fresh flowers once we get back," She assures, sounding apologetic about her current inability to do that right away given the limited vegetation provided by the frigid weather seizing Emprise du Lion.

The Arbor Blessing and Felandris that can be found in the area are rather resilient and both extremely useful in alchemic formulas, but not particularly... well... graceful-looking plants.

"For now I'll just..." Evelyn takes a step closer and, with deft fingers, she slips the flower through one of the loops at the lapel of your Seeker's leather tunic.

You are still to utter a single word. But speechlessness is - much to your further mortification - not a very surprising reaction from you.

Words always had a way to elude you during the most crucial moments.

What you take a moment longer to realize, however, is that right now you don't need them at all.

So much has already been said between you two without mouthing a single vowel.

You have already exchanged so many, heavily charged conversations with a simple glance.

Perhaps that's what scared you so much about her.

This... effortlessness of communication.

The easiness and naturalness it has developed.

It frightens you.

Even more so than her Mark. Than how it came to me. More than her ability to make a rip in the Veil.

More than her being a mage and reminding you too much of-

You shake off the thought to dispell those old emotions, and, with an instinct pulling from some primal, vital part inside you, instead of relying on words that still refuse to come to your aid, you reach out and take a hold of her, pulling her in by the waist.

The startled gasp of surprise that she expels at the unexpected, swift movement, gets promptly muted against your own lips, turning into a soft humming sound of approval as soon as she catches up, positively melting into the kiss, surrendering willingly to the unhurried, leisure pace that you establish.

You relish in feeling her molding herself against your front when you deepen the kiss just that tiny bit enough to make her knees buckle in response.

Just another excuse for you to hold her closer. Firmly. Preciously. And kiss her deeper. Not that you need much of an excuse for that, especially given the way she starts to respond in kind, teasing your bottom lips with nibbles and wordlessly encouraging you for more by drawing you closer, running her hand through your short hair on the back of your head.

The alarming thing is how easily- how_ readily _your body is to respond to every single action. How instinctively it reacts to each gesture; from the most subtle ones, to those that have your insides quiver with the same thrilling kind of anticipation that you have experienced last night, when you were on top of her. Cradled in the intimate space between her thighs. Her arms around you. Her fingers digging in your shoulder blades. Her legs locked at the ankle on the small of your back...

The details of the previous night are still so ardent in your mind that by the time you break the kiss you are left a bit breathless, flustered, and (not that you'll easily admit it), also lightheaded.

There is hardly any need to point out the obvious though, when the first thing you are met with as soon as that sense of vertigo passes and you finally feel confident enough to let your eyes flutter open, is the blossoming of Evelyn's smile into the most awfully pleased grin.

"So it's true." She states, blue eyes wide and bright with amazement.

You frown and blink. Puzzled. Still mildly disoriented and slightly dizzy with the same reason that has left your lips tingling so pleasantly, so sweetly with promises that have stirred the arousal coiled in your lower belly from last night.

"What is?" You question, giving in to curiosity and most likely falling into what you realize too late could be a trap.

In response, she reaches out with one hand to delicately stroke the petals of the flower that she has enchanted and pinned on your leather tunic like a medal.

"That Nevarran orchids have aphrodisiac properties."

The deceivingly tender smile on her lips takes no time in shifting into that same smirk you are - in spite of yourself - growing so terribly fond of.

Still, you roll your eyes and heave a sighed grunt of exasperation.

Lovely as it is, "This is a paper flower." You point out, not to diminish its meaning or the tenderness of the gesture and romanticism of the gift itself, but feeling compelled to stress such relevance.

Someone has to make sure that things don't get to her head, after all. There just aren't enough deities in all of Thedas' cultures combined that would save you if she were to get smug otherwise.

Unfortunately though, your silent prayer to the Heavens gets ignored, and the remark earns you and even smuggier, infinitely more insufferable, utterly disarming, irresistibly charming, dimpled grin.

"Then I guess I'm just_ that_ good."

Whether she means her magical abilities and her general competence to cast spells, or her unique skill to fluster you beyond compare, you aren't sure.

But you know how to shut up all of her nonsense now.

(And how to benefit from it as well).

With another eloquent eye roll, you pull her close to you once more and promptly capture and swallow the delightful gasp that the sudden movement elicits from her before the sound can slip past her lips- her impossibly soft, sweet lips, which part instinctively at the first touch of your own.

Warmth envelops you. Shielding you from the cold of dawn. Weaving through places of you that you have only rediscovered last night.

It's like getting reacquainted with a part of yourself you long thought lost. Or worse.

The way it sizzles alive when the kiss deepens and your tongues touch, proves how wrong you were.

And you have never been gladder.

When her legs threaten to give in, you simply hold her tighter, just like in one of Varric's sappiest, most romantic novels. And this time, having finally learned from your mistakes, you never let her go.

Battling countless of ferocious beasts and facing just as many ruthless enemies in your life should have rendered you immune to fear.

Faith and courage have been guiding your sword for so long, and yet, you have never felt as brave as you feel in this very moment, when you finally choose to give the faint, fading doubt cornered in your mind the chance to step out of those cold shadows and grow into the same, warm, bright certainty unfolding and blooming oh so wondrously in your chest.


End file.
